


Don't Mind Me

by nanailliterate



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M, ambiguous tags don't offer really anything about the actual fic, i guess fluff, one boy is figuring stuff out, sleepy Paul is my favorite Paul, the other is pretty set
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:55:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8441200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanailliterate/pseuds/nanailliterate
Summary: Just a day and then a night.





	

It was all very innocent. It really was.

It had been a long day that day and it started unusually early for the Quarrymen, who usually don't get anything done besides practicing before mid-noon. The reason for such an absurdly early band meeting was because John had to meet with the owner of a club they could potentially land a gig with. Gigs were few and far between these days, what with so many bands trying to be discovered for their rock and roll talent. It was always crucial to land work wherever it was offered, lest they be tied in and faded away with all the other bands with the same dream.

So now the meeting was set. Of course, the man just  had to meet with John at 7 in the morning on a Saturday. 'What kind of club opens in the morning anyway? Grandma's wanting to play bingo?' and John, being the great guy that he was, had invited George, Paul, and Stu along with him. If one has to suffer for all, then all can suffer for one, as well. At least that's what John told them when he, personally (just the kind of guy he is), dragged their sorry asses out of bed at what felt like day break. Even the whines and cursing coming from his fellow band mates didn't deter John's mission. He was going to have the meeting, with sun or with moon.

Still, the meet was not particularly long, or at least it wasn't supposed to be very long. The owner, Mr. Gibbs they later found out when they arrived at the club, was a man of order and form, especially for the likes of his profession. He just wanted to know the set list and what kind of language they would be using in it. He was fine with every song they choose ('of course he was, it's a bloody  club ') and even offered a night of free drinks on top of the pay they were already getting. All four boys immediately perked up and nodded their heads gratefully, soon forgetting the early time. It was certainly generous since they supposed he would be offering the same to whoever was on stage after they were. Usually the club owners couldn't give a rats ass about treating the bands after a long set, since they could probably find a job easy enough for another band. As it was, Mr. Gibbs was quite the patron for their  musical endeavor.

The boys, egged on by Paul, had brought their instruments with them just in case they would need to do a last minute audition to prove they were worth the pay they were receiving. Luckily, no such thing was needed, much to their relief. However, Gibbs (or Gibby, as John liked to call him) had urged them to have a sound check. Even despite all of their protests that they had already done it and would do another quick rundown when they got on stage to play, he demanded another right then and there.

Soundcheck took much longer than any of them had liked or experienced before. Gibbs was much too fussy, much too opinionated for his own good since he knew little about music and the instruments themselves. John thought that Gibbs sense of entitlement was almost as annoying as waking up that morning.

'The guitar sounded too scratchy.'

'Well that's because we're opening with a bit of a harsher song.'

'Well the drummer is sat too far back, no one will be able to hear him.'

'If he was any closer, most of the crowd won't be able to hear their own thoughts.'

It went on like that for  hours . John, and all of the boys for that matter, just thought Gibbs should stick to his own lane - that is serving drinks when demanded, paying bills when demanded, ordering kick outs when demanded, and just being an overall (slave) servant to the needs of the public. If he stuck to his own lane, they would stick to theirs. If he had done that, John would feel much more excited about playing later on that night, but as it was, he wasn't quite too fond of Mr. Gibbs much anymore. Even with the free drinks.

When they were finally released, they were told to return at 6:30 sharp. The boys groaned, since they would most likely continue to play until at least 11:30. Usually it wouldn't be that huge of a problem since they lived for music and were usually full of energy but none had gotten much sleep the night before and since they had to wake up earlier, they were dreading it before it even began.

The in-between time between the meeting and the gig were spent at John's house since he decidedly had the largest and best selection of clothes. George just needed a shirt there, Stu needed a change of pants here, Paul's hair needed a good combing everywhere. The look of their band was important aspect of them, maybe coming up right after the way they actually sounded. It was tiring to try to get them all into proper attire, they will admit. It paid off though. When they were done with prepping, the outcome was  _ most desirable _ , Mimi had commented with a blank face.

With everything at the ready, they left for the gig.

Once they strutted into the double doors of the club, it was a blur.

As soon as they hit the stage, it was like a mass transformation happened. John lit up like an unused firework suddenly finding its way to a festival; he was where he needed to be to be fulfilled. The name John Lennon was much more than just a name on a birth certificate. It was a stage name all on its own, a  persona . He jumped, laughed, and belted out the lyrics as if he needed them to breath, to live. Whatever was said about John offstage, there was no denying that onstage he was as confident and charming as anyone could be. The energy was truly incredible and everyone else could feel it, as well. The rest of the boys soon equaled his spirit. John soon found himself rivaling against the crowd, too. It was like the energy that he was radiating was being absorbed by the crowd and given back to him full force. It was a cycle of bliss; pure rock and roll bliss.

It went on for hours. The unusually boisterous crowd continued their rampage of dancing and drinking until the very last song, even with the few ballads they mixed in. That night could be said to have been a great success.

With the final song complete, John exhaled loudly into the microphone, grinning as the applauds continued. His band wasn't all that recognized ('yet,' he told himself), but right now he could swear he may as well be the King himself. That dream-like thought remained with him while he graciously gave the audience their fair wells and thank you's. Looking to his right, he spotted Paul waving to the crowd, a small smile placed on his boyish face. The smile may be small, but its Paul's eyes that displayed his secret joy, all wide and gleaming. John rolled his eyes for no particular reason and clasped a sweaty, bouncy Stu on the shoulder.

"Come on, lets get out of here." John laughed to Stu, hair a mess and stuck to his forehead with leftover traces of melted gel near his sideburns. But he responded with as much enthusiasm as he's given, nodding and motioning for the others to start packing away their things. All the while, the energy they feel is the only thing still keeping them awake.

"No drinks, Johnny?" Stu asks, slinging an arm around him.

"Forget the drinks, you all couldn't handle it."

John knows he's right when no one tries to argue. Instead, George steps beside them, smile plastered on his face.  "Tonight was great, huh?" 

"Son, tonight was gear." John felt like he was thrumming with rock and roll through his entire body. He was feeling proud of the thing he had created, kept alive and nurtured. Even if it's been transformed and altered (mostly thanks to the chubby-cheeked bastard just to the right of him putting his bass away), it would always be John's band in his heart. It was his baby, no matter what would happen. Thankfully, he kept that little secret to himself.

Paul nodded his head in agreement with John, "With more nights like this, I wouldn't even mind waking up at half past ass in the morning."

A series of laughs emitted themselves around the group of young boys, sweat glistening off their foreheads and fingers tingling from the aftermath of playing their instruments.

With all that energy they had in the club, it was strange that the ride home was something entirely different. As soon as their rear ends hit the leather seats of the car, it was like someone flipped a light switch from on to off. Instead of bright vibrancy in eyes, they were droopy and tired. Stu's head was loitering against the window, occasionally dozing off and on. George was way past that, already contenting himself against John's shoulder. John could feel a steady stream of puffs that was ticking his neck and made him shiver. John was just about to wake the other boy, possibly lecture him about giving pleasurable feelings to a fellow mate, but was interrupted when Paul suddenly jumped from the seat next to him with a jolt.

"Christ Paul, what's the matter with you?" John glowered, "Scared me half to death!"

"Sorry," Paul slurred slowly. He looked deadbeat tired, maybe even more so than Stu and George, yet he sat up and widened his eyes every few seconds, like he was purposefully torturing himself to stay awake. "Just kind of... woke myself up."

"Right. Well you look bloody right knackered. Why don't you just nod off for a bit?" They weren't making all that great on time in the small car. Thanks to the traffic of a Saturday night, the ride will probably be prolonged even more. "You got enough time."

Paul shook his head with something equaled to trialing determination, "No, no. I'm okay. I'm awake."

John snorted quietly to himself. It's bullshit, Paul looks like the endurance of staying coherent is slowly killing him. He's been acting weird lately, John will say. It's not always unpleasant. The songwriting process is as smooth as ever, his eyes light up more, ideas flow more steadily and easier between the two; things are good. But sometimes, when Paul doesn't think anyone's looking, his eyes will drift off to a faraway land that John doesn't think he'll ever get the pleasure of visiting. Paul could probably stay like that, in his land of thought, for hours. But someone is always there to wake him up, to stir him out of his fantasy.

John doesn't want to be that person, though. He wants to let Paul drift off somewhere. In fact, now would be a good time as ever for Paul to go on his travels. Hopefully he'll be off to somewhere much more beautiful than this stupid cramped car that smells like four boys who don't use enough deodorant.

"Liar." John said easily, already halfway to letting the conversation go. Though, still eyeing Paul up and down as if he expects him to do something fiendish at any second. Luckily, it's nothing fiendish but its still annoying as all-hell.

"Am not." He declared, possibly giving John the same exact look.

"Son, you ain't that good of a liar."

"Fine," Paul sighed, frown coupled with puppy dog eyes. John would usually make fun of that if it were a different night. "I'm tired, but I can't go to sleep."

"It looked pretty easy when you were, y'know, making your own waterfall coming from that wide gob of yours." The light haired man commented easily, pointing to Paul's mouth. Paul's face contorted to an even more irritated expression than the one he was already making. What a face, John laughed to himself.

Paul, after he removed the drool from his cheek, glared at John. "I don't mean I'm not physically able to go to sleep, you fool."

"What's keeping you, then?" John mumbled, setting a cigarette in between his lips. He didn't even really crave a smoke at the moment, but he lit it up anyway. More often than not, he'll smoke with the piss poor excuse of boredom.

Paul looked out the window. "I could ask you the same question." He shot back.

"The difference is that I have an actual answer."

"Which is?"

"The brain. Me worst enemy. I ain't going to sleep till a few more hours, I can tell you that." John gazed out the window too, noticing that the car next to them had a light out on the left side. "Insomnia, and all that." He waved his hand flippantly.

Paul swung his head to blink at him, but nodded. "Insomnia."

"'S right, son."

Paul looked back out the window and sighed. John was about to ask what the hell he's getting all melancholy for, but before he gets the chance the driver takes a sharp right turn and sends all four boys cramped in the back veering in that direction.

"Shortcut!" He yelled back in explanation when all the boys groan. John can't even begin to remember what he was going to ask Paul. Instead, he spends the rest of the car ride complaining about the driver that has no sense of 'exhaustion plus driving.' Probably kept up by pills or something, the nut.

Luckily, the pill popping cab driver doesn't manage to plummet the car into oblivion, and makes it to the first destination. The first one out of the car is George and he barely even waves goodbye to anyone. When the driver pulls up at his house, he just shoots out of the car and into the comfort of his warm home without so much as a turn of his head back.

Next is Stu, but when he leaves he has the good graces to smile. He tilts his head at John in a silent goodbye and John returns it in good mood. When Paul catches his eye, they nod awkwardly and he leaves quietly after that. Things have been weird and tense between Paul and Stu, more so than just their usual bullshit. John doesn't want to ask about it tonight, that can wait.

The next stop is Paul's house. When they get to the bricked, familiar house of ol' Jim McCartney, John can see Paul smile softly and open the car in a hypnotized state, like the house is sweet talking him, egging him on to just step inside its warm atmosphere. When John comes bounding out the car alongside, Paul's spellbound state is only somewhat interrupted.

"Whatcha doin' there Johnny?" Paul asked, though he's already making his way towards the front door.

John stuffed his hands in his pockets and patted Paul on the back as he tried to unlock the front door, "No way I'm going home to Mimi tonight. She'd have my head if she knew I'd stay out all night and then not get any sleep. Woman has eyes in the back of her head, as well as all the rooms, mind you."

"Saint, that Mimi is."

"Not when she yells at you at 2:00 in the morning. A man can't even think under those conditions."

Paul only responds with a hum and a shake of his head with a silent laugh. When he finally gets the door open, the two redecorate by dumping their shoes and coats by the front door. Paul knows he's going to get one the next morning when his father finds the mess, but right now Paul can't even begin to  care .

The dark haired lad automatically heads towards the staircase, exhaustion taking him right where he needs to be. He noticed, though, no sound of footsteps following him.

"You coming, John?" He swiveled around to see that John was heading towards the living room. Paul frowned.

"Can't sleep. Figured I'd enjoy the mute telly or find a book to read down here," he shrugged and made himself comfortable on the couch, "Go on up, I'll probably be bound to pass out here sometime."

Without reply, Paul headed upstairs and entered his room. He searched around the room, nearly black without any of the lights on, but eventually finds what he wants easy enough, gathers everything up, and makes his way back downstairs.

John turned his head to direction of the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. He's already made up about six and a half awful excuses to tell Jim when he sees a wild Lennon on his couch ("In my state of mind it would be criminal to let me back into that house with Mimi" to "All the buses are closed tonight, the only bus open was the one directly to here! What luck!") but to John's surprise, relief, and slight disappoint to not getting to use his excuses, it's just Paul again.

"Fuck's sakes, Paul, what are you doing now?" John whispered, laughing at the pile of nonsense Paul was carrying in his arms.

Ignoring his question, Paul began to set things on the table in front of them, "Books of all kind, newspaper, pen and paper, whatever the fuck this thing I stole from Mike is, some pajamas, old pair of slippers, and blankets." He practically beamed, satisfied with the objects laying on the coffee table in front of John. The older boy raised his eyebrow at the kind gesture. He's even more shocked when Paul sits down next to him.

"You're not going to sleep?"

"Not that tired," Paul shrugged, eyes on the blank television set, then on some framed pictures on the table.

"Will you quit telling me that," the elder muttered irritably. "Like I said before, Paulie, you're walking dead. Don't stay up on my account."

"Just shut your mouth, Lennon," Paul doesn't say this with anything but jest and a bit of obvious fondness. After a few seconds, Paul visibly shivers and pulls the blanket he had brought down around him.

"Thought that was for me?" John frowned.

"Was, but its bloody freezing down here. I'm cold," Paul shivered again and pulled the blanket more firmly around him.

John rolled his eyes and pulled out a cigarette from his pocket. Immediately, Paul tells him he can't light it in here.

"Why not?" He still lights the cigarette, inhaling deeply with a sigh.

"Dad would kill me. You're gonna get the smoke smell all over the furniture."

"But I always smoke here," John exhaled.

"What?" Eyebrows knit together, a frown gracing the cute McCartney face, "I've never seen you smoke in here."

"Cause I only do it when you leave," John says it like its quite obvious, "Which I would be alone now if you hadn't of insisted of staying down here."

Paul frowned once again but doesn't say anything this time, figuring its no use arguing with John, especially since he's already almost halfway done with the cigarette. He sinks down into the couch instead. He feels so warm now, so calm and content. The couch isn't particularly fluffy, but it is comfortable. That, with the combination of the huge, bulky blanket he has wrapped around him, makes Paul feel very safe and happy here. He can even feel John's body heat somewhat. That helps more than anything.

John noticed Paul's happiness on Island McCartney and couldn't help but feel a tad envious that he's left out in the cold while Paul steals  his blanket.

"Let up, son, share a little," Really, asking is unnecessary because he's already grabbed some of the blanket and pulled it around his legs, at least. Paul grunts but accommodates John, moving closer so that the blanket is able to still be kept securely around him even though John's forced him to share.

Though satiated a little from the extra blanket he scored, John still can't figure out why Paul is here. His body has practically melted into the couch. He wouldn't even be surprised if the younger lad hadn't a bone in his body, that's how limp he is. Even his eyes seem unfocused, glancing around from object to object laggardly.

Nevertheless, John gave Paul a smile without the other boy the wiser. "How's your family doing?" He thought to ask, just to give Paul something to talk about.

He raised his head a little and nodded, "Oh, yeah, good. Quite good. Mike fancies a girl, hear a lot about her. Dad's working, working lots.." He's interrupted by a loud bear-like yawn, but continues after, "Suppose he's in for a raise soon, hoping."

John nodded his head, flinging his arm up lazily to rest on the back of the couch. Paul's head automatically goes in the direction of the newly found heat radiating off of John's side. John almost laughs at the sight before him. If Paul was just a little bit closer, he'd be right under John's arm, pressed under his armpit. Wouldn't like that smell much, would he.

"How's your aunt? Sisters?" Paul asked quietly, voice getting more lazy by the second. It's too much for John not to comment on.

"They're fine. Reckon the oldest will marry the Prince and be the Queen soon. She's put on enough play-marriages with the lad. Makes me the ring-bearer. Lousy position to play in your own sister's fake-wedding," Paul snorts a little at that, "But hell Paul, you're about to kip it right now. Why are you so stubborn?"

"'M not stubborn."

"Oh but you are," John snickered, not feeling as bothered as he's making it seem but more along the lines of perplexed.

"Just gonna stay up with you," Paul murmured, eyes going shut for about three seconds at a time.

"And why's that? Your dreams not enough for you, gotta see the real thing?" Paul laughed a little at that, his chest rising and falling easily.

"Yeah Johnny, something like that," a huge yawn forced its way out of Paul's mouth again, "You're brilliant when its nighttime." It's almost too quiet that John may not have heard it at all if wasn't for his ears to be so attuned to every noise in the quiet house.

"What?" He asks stupidly.

"Fucking brilliant Johnny." Paul mutters again, letting his eyes close entirely, "Love talking to you at nighttime. When everyone's asleep and you just talk, and talk, and talk..." His voice trails off after this, and a light snore takes the place of his voice. John feels silly. He smiles at Paul's confession that he's been staying up to just be able to talk to him. It makes John feel warm inside when it shouldn't.

John looks down at the sleeping boy now. He knows he should probably just let Paul be, but he can't help but shake him a little, rousing him from his sleep.

"Lemme be," Paul slurs, swatting his hand away, not even bothering to open up his eyes again.

John was close to gaping at his unconscious friend, "Swear, Paul, you're giving me a complex here." First he refuses to go to sleep, then he brings all kinds of things down with him to keep John company, then when John wants to talk for a little while longer, he can't be bothered.

John sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, but immediately shoots his eyes open when he feels a hard head make contact with the side of his belly. When he looks down, he sees that Paul's finally come the rest of the way over and is, barely but enough for John to feel it, laying his head on John's side. Trying to move them from the position, John starts squirming a little, hoping to wake the other lad.

All the movement must have bothered Paul, though, because instead of moving he buries his face into the warmth of John's body and picks his feet up off the floor and onto the couch. John scoffs, unbelievable. More or less, John's now trapped underneath Paul's head and his arm that's now resting on his stomach. Not the most comfortable he's ever been.

If John was being honest, he wasn't that perturbed about what Paul's unconsciously doing right now. John's always loved body contact. And it's only Paul, he can never feel uncomfortable or strange or  wrong with Paul. So he'll let him be.

Besides, John's happy that he's with Paul right now, that Paul is the one that's currently pressing against his ribcage. It's just Paul, it's only Paul. It's always Paul.

\---

John wakes up an hour later, surprised that he had fallen asleep in the first place. It's still dark outside, too early for anybody to be up yet.

He's not too comfortable, one foot kicked up on the coffee table and another still on the floor. Paul's still draped over him like John's only job is to be there for him to grip onto. He looks bloody well comfortable, John thinks bitterly as the leg on the table falls asleep. He hates that feeling.

John's sure that Paul won't mind if he puts his feet on the couch, too. He pushes Paul body more against the back of the couch and sticks his legs up on the edge. He scoots a little more to make sure his feet won't be teetering off the edge or fall. He sighs, immediately liking this more than the position he was in earlier. It's just enough to make him comfortable enough to fall asleep for a while longer.

\---

John wakes up again, this time a few hours later. It's still dark outside but light is slowly streaming into the house. John supposes Jim will be up soon, maybe in a hour or so. He's still got a little bit of time. He's so tired.

Paul is still asleep. This time his red-tinted nose is buried more on his chest than his side, probably seeking to stay warm. His face looks so content, long eyelashes barely visible thanks to the big wad of bed hair in the way. It looks like he's hugging John, the way he's laying. His hands are holding onto the back of John's shirt, though, and John can slightly feel the sharp fists digging into his back. Although it is a tad bit uncomfortable, almost a wee bit painful, John doesn't mind it too much. He does notice that their legs are tangled together, but its warm. He's sure that Paul won't mind.

He lays his hands on Paul now, both of them coming to rest on his back, keeping him in place, and falls back asleep.

\---

When he wakes up a third time, the daylight is in full swing and the house is up with it.

He doesn't feel very cold, but his body does notice that a humanly warmth has indeed been taken away.

He opens his eyes and find nothing but the blanket laying across him. Trying to blink away the delirium he still feels from sleep, he stretches and groans. His body feels a bit sore, no doubt from all the movement and effort of tending to Paul's demanding octopus arms. Although his back aches a little from where Paul's fists were trapped underneath, his legs a bit stiff from having Paul's tangled with his, and his arms sore from holding him still. He can't complain. It was a great night. A great night's sleep.

He picks up the blanket and sets it back on the table without much effort into actually folding it. He sits up and looks around the house. From where he's sat on the edge of the McCartney couch, he can see Paul making breakfast for his dad and Mike. Jim is sitting at the breakfast table, reading a newspaper and sipping his coffee. Mike is chatting away about something or other, and Paul just nods his head, humoring his brother.

Suddenly Paul lifts his head, making eye contact with John. John's body feels itself warm, but Paul just smiles, almost shyly.

Paul does a few more things in the kitchen, cooks a few eggs and stirs some batter, and walks towards John, who still hasn't moved from his position on the couch.

Without sitting down, Paul whispers, "Thanks for letting me stay up with you, and then sleep with you. I noticed I kind of hogged the couch, must not have been to comfortable for you. Next time we'll go to my bed and do it right." Paul bites his lip in his own cheeky, charming way and smiles, then turns on his heel to resume making breakfast for his family.

John's heartbeat speeds up at an insanely fast rate- just from cuddling, it's ridiculous. But he wouldn't protest to that. He enjoys holding Paul, enjoys cuddling. It's no problem at all.

Paul sneaks one more grin to John, then serves breakfast.

As John makes his way over to the kitchen table, stealing a piece of bacon and ignoring Jim's warning glare, John nods his head in confirmation.

No, Paul didn't mind at all.


End file.
